


The Fish-Seller (A Pearl of the Antilles outtake)

by titania522



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fanfiction, Forbidden Love, Gen, Historical AU, Oneshot, Outtake, Slavery, caribbean, haitian slave uprising, holiday fanfiction, the island beneath the sea, the pearl of the antilles, voudou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titania522/pseuds/titania522
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Day 4 of the Yuletide in Panem holiday writing challenge.</p><p>November/December 1789, two years before one of the bloodiest slave uprisings in human history. Sixteen year old Rue is recently inherited by the wealthy and cruel plantation owner, Seneca Crane. Situated in Le Cap, the major northern port city and capital of Saint Domingue, she meets Thresh, a slave and fish-seller. setting off a love story that will have powerful implications for Katniss and Peeta's story in The Pearl of the Antilles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fish-Seller (A Pearl of the Antilles outtake)

 

**Banner by[akai-echo](akai-echo.tumblr.com)**

**Written for[Yuletide in Panem](yuletideinpanem.tumblr.com)**

**November/December 1789**

 

When I arrived on the Monsieur Seneca Crane’s residence in Le Cap, I possessed the faculty of speaking proper English, French and Creole.  My mistress, and Crane’s now deceased aunt, Madam Fevre, had trained me to be a lady in waiting. She had not intended for me to be a hired hand on the plantation fields. That was for the likes of the recently arrived, the poor, desperate souls stolen from their lands in Africa and brought, naked and consumed by sea sickness, to the ports of Le Cap.  

 

No, my place was at the side of the wives of diplomats, merchants and governors.  She had made that much clear in her will when she bequeathed me to her nephew, as part of his inheritance.

 

Perhaps because of this, Monsieur Crane despised me.

 

When he installed me as a kitchen maid, I accepted my lot, for what other choice did a slave have?  Even if I spoke twenty languages, sang like the angels, or was as beautiful as the Madonna herself, it did not matter. I even had a secret gift that he did not know of. I could read a little, something slaves were not allowed to do.  But all of these talents meant nothing because I was no better than the footstool at my master’s feet.

 

As the newest acquisition, and subject to the jealousies of the coarser kitchen maids because of the relative leisure of my previous employment, I was assigned wash duty and worked in the kitchen as needed.  I should have been grateful - I would permanently reside in Monsieur Crane’s home in Le Cap and never see the plantation where it was rumored that he ruled with the iron fist of cruelty.  Even so, I looked at my fair hands, which had not seen harsh work in all their lives, the skin smooth and dewy - and said a silent farewell to them as I plunged my hands into the wash. I saw the advantages of my gifts float away in the soapy, hot water of the kitchen wash and wondered forlornly if my station would ever improve.

 

**XXXXX**

 

I was fortunate that Monsieur Crane spent most of his time far from his home in the city. The household, tolerable when he was away, became tense and unbearable in his presence.  And he never tired of making me pay for what he perceived was my idle nature.

 

“My aunt kept you like a pet, so you have forgotten your place in the natural order of the world,” he spat when I tarried too long to bring him his tea.  In his impatience, he knocked an inkwell onto the floor, it’s viscous, black liquid leaving a smattering of dots along the front of my apron skirts.  

 

“Go on, you lazy cow.  Get on your knees and clean that mess. And take care that you wipe every last drop or I shall flog you one lash for each stain you leave behind.”

 

Trembling, I got down onto my knees, first wiping, then scrubbing, all the while thanking Papa Dumballah that the floor was stone and not wood or I would have to take those lashes no matter how much effort I put into cleaning the mess left by Monsieur Crane’s indignation.  He rose from his place, making sure to kick me with his boot as he walked by, leaving a welt on my thigh. I could only imagine, if I were forced to live each day in the company of such unrestrained wickedness, I might escape into the mountains, if I made it, or happily take the penalty of death instead.

 

**XXXXX**

 

I heard of Thresh Arceneaux before I ever laid eyes on him him. On the days when the fish-seller called at the kitchen door, the maids sprinkled themselves with floral extracts, borrowed or made, and took care to comb through their hair, oiling dry, neglected locks to tame the wayward wisps caused by the perpetual humidity.  The ladies chattered with the expectation of being spoken to by the young man as if he were King Louis himself come to visit his subjects.

 

The first time I finally saw him, he sat silently at the kitchen hearth. He was a privileged one, for he carried the master’s money from the wharf to the master’s accountant and was allowed to buy and sell, carrying on his person the explicit written permission of his master sealed with Monsieur Crane’s seal.  I did not speak at all, only watching as the maids fawned over him. Feeling shy beyond all measure, I withdrew to the pantry so I could watch without being caught.

 

Magdalene, a waifish brown girl with large, dry curls and hands hardened by labor, brought the young man a portion of leftovers from the master’s meal, an offering the young man wisely refused, for if he was caught being fed without Monsieur Crane’s permission, he would risk punishment for stealing.  He did take the mango nectar, raising the glass to his lips and swallowing almost with one gulp the thick liquid, it’s fragrance reaching across the room to where I stood watching the bobbing of his neck.  

 

I became annoyed with myself. I had other challenges, such as trying to avoid being beaten by Monsieur Crane and pleasing the Loas so they would give me the strength I needed to endure my current situation.  I had no time for distracting myself for even a moment with such things.  And still I watched.

 

He took to his feet before the warm cooking fires, stretching his long, powerful muscles.  I was struck at by how large he was - he filled every empty space in the kitchen, whatever was not occupied by swishing skirts, pots, pans, food and furniture. He was everywhere at once and his sheer corporality stole away my breath. I was seventeen, and though slim, I was not a short, frail girl.  And yet he still managed to dwarf me.

 

But he had another disadvantage, one that I could not forgive him for, the one defect that would make me hide each time he appeared at the foot of the kitchen door.

 

He was beautiful.

 

His skin was the color of ebony, so dark it shined in the sun, a bottomless well of black that made my light brown skin look pale beside his.  On an island where, the darker the man, the more likely he was to be judged brutish and animalistic, he wore his blackness with a pride bordering on insolence.  His brown eyes took in everything - when the ladies of the house fell over themselves to serve him a bit of cassava or cod fish in sauce, he was busy discreetly surveying everything with his quick eye. There was nothing brutish about a mind that appeared so attuned to every detail around him. He was, in a word, mesmerizing.

 

On his third visit to the kitchen, I was asked by old Madame Valmont, the cook, to bring tea to our guest while she fetched payment for the fish.  The ladies who usually descended on the young man like a murder of crows were dispersed throughout the house with the instructions to prepare for the annual Christmas ball that evening.

 

I gathered the tea set and, with such nerves that I thought I should faint, brought the young man his refreshments.

 

“Tea, sir?”

 

He looked up from his place before the fire and appraised me with eyes like onyx, lingering on my face until I was forced to look down.

 

“ _Swazo daus <Sweet bird>,_” he said, his eyes twinkling with humor.

 

I looked up in shock at the endearment but recovered quickly, hoping to remain cool and composed where the others would likely be hysterical. For reasons I did not wish to examine, distinguishing myself from the other kitchen maids mattered more than anything. “Sugar or honey?”

 

He shook his head, his face becoming grave.  “I will not take sugar while my brothers and sisters are in chains.”

 

Shocked at his audacity, I did not fail to hear the sing-song lilt of his speech and quickly understood that he had not been born on the island.  “How many years have you lived in Saint Domingue?”

 

“Since I was nine,” he answered, taking the tea from me and sipping it. “I speak French and Creole now, like the white men do, and they think I am tame.”

 

“Sir, you forget yourself and speak unwisely,” I admonished him, shocked again by the sudden intimate tone he had taken with me.

 

“I am not unwise to trust you. I knew that from the moment I caught you in hiding in the closet, like a tiny bird in a chicken coupe.”

 

“That is unkind, given how those chickens receive you and cluck around you with only a care for your comfort.”

 

“They see the a face, a body. They do not understand a man’s soul,” he set down the cup and stood up.  “I have much work to do. It is Yuletide and the _Zoreilles’_ bellies must be filled,” he turned to me, with that same familiarity as if he had long known me and I was the daft one who had forgotten our acquaintance, took my hand and kissed the knuckle.  “May I call you Rue?”

 

“How do you know my name?” I asked, pulling my hand back, cradling the limb as if it had been branded by his lips, as if that should have mattered.  But it did.

 

He smiled, the light reaching his bottomless eyes, but he did not answer. Upon closer inspection, their depths had more texture, like boiling cacao, where light and steam glinted off of the surface in a sporadic and uneven dance. “Until next time, _little bird_ ,” holding my hand a moment longer than necessary before releasing it.  “Au revoir, Madame Valmont.”

 

“Good bye, Monsieur Arceneaux!” she said, waving at him from her place at the counter.

 

I opened the door of the kitchen, through which he stepped without another word onto the cobblestones that led up the walk and onto the public road.

 

**XXXXX**

 

When the revelers from Monsieur Crane’s ball had finally retired from their festivities early the next morning, the servants, many of whom who had been awake most of the night to serve the guests, began the arduous work of cleaning the dance hall of boughs of evergreen, melted candle wax, spilled punch and gilded decorations sprawled in every crevice.  The kitchen maids prepared the late repast for those whose stomachs might be tender from too many spirits.  As much as I tried, and as exhausted in mind and body as I found myself to be, I could not rid my mind of the impressions made by the young man.  He had called me a bird and indeed, I felt like one - quick to flit and leap about, without peace or contentment. Except I had no wings and could not fly and if I had to attribute a melody to myself, it would be one of loneliness and now, of vague longing.

 

I gathered my table covers and towels that had been used in abundance during the previous night and stumbled outside to the wash basin.  Most of the girls paid me little mind and I said very little to those around me, each day presenting itself like a mountain to be traversed until night came and I could be left to myself to the protection of darkness and the oblivion of sleep.  I filled the wooden bucket with water from the well. Setting a small fire to warm the water for the wash, I mechanically added the coarse soap to the water.  

 

In the distance, I heard a call like a bird. It was pleasant at first, a warbling melody quite unlike any I’d heard before, almost too harmonic for such feathered creatures.  But when it became loud and insistent, I realized that it was no bird at all, at least not one of the variety I was familiar with.

 

“Little bird!” came the fierce hiss from the ivy-covered iron fence surrounding the yard where the servants worked.

 

“Who’s there? I asked, panicked by the voice of a man so near to me.

 

“Little bird, do you not comprehend your song?” chuckled the voice and I saw in an instant through the rails, partially hidden by the climbing green plants, Monsieur Arceneaux, his devilish eyes twinkling with mischief.

 

I stepped quietly, careful that no one see me before I reached the fence.  “I speak well enough for men to understand,” I said dryly, though if I were true to myself, I would admit that it made my heart leap to think he might be back only to see me.

 

‘Here,” he thrust a package wrapped with worn red material through the gate. “It is Christmas, even for us.”

 

“Sir…” I protested, completely disarmed by the forward nature of his attentions, “I cannot…”

 

“Look at it first. Do not throw away my work,” he pleaded.

 

I sighed in disapproval but unwrapped the lumpy thing, the corners of the once lavish wrap now frayed and discolored. I paid no mind to the impoverished wrapping and instead searched within. It was a bird, carved with delicate attention from wood. The figure of the creature that rest so lightly in the middle of my hand was defined, down to the striated lines along its beak and the texture of its feathers and wings.  It was lavishly done, with a careful attention to detail.  When I looked up, I was overwhelmed by the generosity of the sculpture.

 

“How did you do this in one night?” I asked, awash in a myriad of conflicting feelings - awe, fear, excitement, and far beneath, a magnetic compulsion to know more about this mysterious man.

 

“I began to make it when I first saw you.  It has long since been complete but,” he faltered, so unlike the sharp confident man he had been until now.  “I waited until the proper occasion to give it to you.”

 

I stared at him, at his imprudence but was hard pressed to be offended. “I’m sorry, sir, I have nothing for you.”

 

He smiled, perhaps relieved that I had not scorned his offering.  “But one day you will,” he leaned into the gate. I caught his eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes. Lines of laughter crinkled around those midnight eyes and he had two deep dimples that made him look both impish and innocent at the same time. I thought for an instant I saw what he meant, what I would eventually give him. It sent a thrill down my spine, the air suddenly heavy with prophecy and expectation. I curtseyed, as I had been trained to do when taking leave of someone. I I knew I should return to my labors before I was scolded by Madam Valmot or boxed on the ears by Magdalene.  But his voice, honeyed and sweet, like the cool night air that breathes relief on your ears, called me back with a tone to match the longing growing in my heart.

 

“ _Jwaye Nwèl ti zwazo <Merry Christmas, bird>_,” he said before turning to disappear into the thicket of jungle leaves.

  



End file.
